


Le monde est à vous

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: France NT, M/M, modern day AU, more unpopular ships to go around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karim is a product of the troubled suburbs of Lyon. Yoann is a young breakthrough journalist, with high hopes in changing the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le monde est à vous

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Futbal-MiniBang. This fic is brought to you by Google, Wikipedia, really depressing French films, and French taught in America. Some political commentary too, which I may not necessarily believe in, but here it is! Please also check out the awesome [fanmix](http://www.adrive.com/public/GZvm2K/Le%20Monde%20est%20a%20vous%20Mix.zip) [dld_ftw](http://dld-ftw.livejournal.com/) made for this collaboration! <3

" _Riots continue for the second night in the southern suburbs of Paris. Mobs of youths attacked a police station, throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails. Nearby building were vandalized, and up to 30 cars were set aflame. Riot police responded with rubber bullets and tear gas. The crowds dispersed in the early morning before 4AM."_

"A vicious cycle." Zizou switches off the TV.

Karim hums noncommittally, clearing the tables without a real sense of urgency. It's three in the afternoon, and business is slow as usual. Besides, Karim's shift is almost over.

"Youths riot, cars burnt, buildings destroyed, the police crack down, the media has a ball, the mayor makes a speech about improving people's lives, but nothing comes out of it. And then—a couple of months, a year later—we repeat. Useless. Everything."

Karim thinks Zizou is extraordinarily perceptive and should be someone more important than an owner of a restaurant/bar. It's a shame he isn't.

~~

"Ay, Karim! Been waiting on you all day!" Samir calls from the steps by their apartment complex, a wayward smile tugging at his lips. Karim notes to approach with caution.

"I get off from Zizou's at three. It's been like that for the past two years."

"Fuck that! I found us something better." Samir slaps him on the shoulder. "You wanna make some extra cash?"

Karim looks at his friend carefully, before sighing, "What is it?"

~~

Karim waits tables for Zizou when Zizou's oldest son Enzo is at school. Karim's family had some economic difficulties after Walid was arrested, and then, _Papa_ had to return to Algeria when _Mamie_ got sick. Zizou helped them as best as he could, so he pays Karim slightly above minimal wage. Although now, Karim supposes he can make more money with Samir and Hatem—whether it's selling car parts or small time dealing, or on occasions, doing legwork for whatever shady business Ribéry happens to be indulging in. But regardless of his options, Karim keeps his shifts at the restaurant. He owes Zizou too much to simply throw away his kindness, especially when Zizou was never obliged to give him a job in the first place. Karim is the only one out of all his friends who stills earns an honest living—or at least, from nine to three on weekdays—and he supposes there's some personal value in maintaining this achievement.

Samir doesn't reveal much about their new job, other than it involving Ribéry and Ménez, the latter having flunked out of university last year. It requires a car, and Samir's cousin-in-law in Lyon has agreed to let them borrow hers. They just need to get the keys, and since Samir has to resolve some financial queries with Ribéry, the responsibility automatically falls to Karim.

"You're not doing anything illegal, are you?" Louisa asks, dangling the keys just out of Karim's reach.

"No. Samir wants to impress a girl."

"Well, don't impress her in the backseat of my car. Can you tell him that?"

"Sure thing."

"It's the black Nissan across the street. Remember, nothing sketch, okay?"

Louisa's apartment is on a cobblestone hill in the peripheral regions of the city. It's late November, with the days getting increasingly shorter and colder. So maybe that explains why the streets are completely empty at five in the afternoon—save for this one guy, standing by the curb on the other end of the block and looking somewhat lost. He's wearing a tan sports jacket and blue jeans, his hair stunningly dark against the bleak autumn backdrop, curling in a casual mop of disarray. The guy catches Karim staring and wrinkles his brows. He's good-looking—sure—but that's not why Karim is staring.

First of all, he's standing a touch too close to the black Nissan, so Karim will have to exert some form of communication in order to get into the driver's seat. But more importantly—in a shaded alley behind the guy—lurk these two baseball bat-wielding _kids_ , who can't be more than twelve or thirteen years old. One of them swings for the guy's leg while the other goes for his head, and the _pauvre con_ never even knew what hit him.

Karim isn't horrified per se, but he is disturbed by how infantile the little thugs looked. He didn't even know they could start this young.

They search the guy's pockets for his wallet and phone, before one of them finally spots Karim. He and the kid have a brief stare down—the latter projecting the steely composure of any cold-blooded killer. And before Karim can fully process what he had just seen, the hoodlums scamper away through the same alley they had emerged from.

Karim checks his surroundings carefully, confirming that he is indeed the only witness. The guy is lying face down between Louisa's Nissan and the white van in front. So regardless of moral obligations, Karim can't simply leave him there.

"Hey," he says once he reaches the man, gently pushing at his shoulder. "You alright, there?"

The guy stirs—meaning he's still alive, which is good—before groaning and bringing a hand to the back of his head. He looks pretty disorientated, and there's a cut on his forehead from hitting the pavement. But other than that, the situation doesn't seem too bad.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital, alright? Uh…"

"Yoann," the man offers, before blacking out again.

~~

"So he's cute." Rasis reaches for Karim's elbow to stop him in his stride. "Where'd you find him?"

"On the street? He was mugged," Karim says without much conviction, brushing his sister off. He has already wasted enough time with this guy. Samir and Ribéry are probably waiting.

"I know _that_." Rasis rolls her eyes. "We couldn't find anything on him, not even his papers. What's his name?"

"Yoann, and that's all I know. I really need to go."

"Alright, alright." Rasis leans in to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm covering for another nurse tonight. Tell _Maman_ not to wait."

Karim sprints to the parking lot and fumbles for the keys. Just as he reaches for the handle, he spots two _flics_ approaching—the usual ones from his area. Their names, he never bothered to learn.

Karim curses under his breath, knowing it's too late to get away. What are these fucking cops doing here? It's not even their turf.

"Hey, you—" One of them shouts, and Karim can almost hear the amusement in his voice. "I know you. You're that little scum who spray painted our van last week."

That had been Samir, although Karim did throw rocks at their station two days ago. But it still goes to show the pigs have no solid grounds in any of their accusations.

They have a history; that much is obvious.

"It wasn't me," Karim grunts, as the second cop pushes him against the Nissan. "Fuck off! I'm in the parking lot of a fucking hospital. I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Oh yeah?" The first cop tugs roughly at his collar. "Why's there blood on you, then?"

Karim looks cross-eyed at the spot, and curses again. He didn't even know. "I took someone to the hospital," he explains.

"You and your little buddies get into a fight?"

"None of your fucking business!"

"Answer the damn question, or I'm hauling your ass to the station." The cop behind him twists his arm hard enough to worry, and the _Maghrébin_ makes one last fruitless struggle, before going limp.

"Some guy got beat up," Karim says begrudgingly. "So I brought him here. I don't even know him."

"Well, aren't you the Good Samaritan."

"Fuck you, you got nothing!"

"What's going on, officers?"

Karim glances in the direction of the fourth voice, just as his arm is staring to feel numb. The guy from before—Yoann—has his head all bandaged up. He's not wearing his jacket from before, but his sweater looks expensive, so maybe the cops would ease off. He could be someone important, who knows?

"We're investigating a possible assault," the first cop says stiffly, and Yoann makes a quiet "ah" sound.

"Because he has blood on his collar, I heard you say? Well, I was assaulted, and the blood belongs to me. This man drove me to the hospital."

The cops share a look. "If he's a witness, we'd still like to take him for questioning."

"Then, you don't really need to cuff him against his car. I have my lawyer on the line, and he'd like to speak with the witness first. I hope you don't mind. I can transfer you the call, if you'd like." Yoann speaks with a touch of cynicism, and the cops shut up after that, letting go of Karim's arm.

The _Maghrébin_ jerks himself free once he's allowed the room, before straightening his jacket.

"Well, thank you, gentlemen." Yoann smiles with astounding confidence, seeing he has the least physical presence out of everyone here. "My lawyer will notify your station of any progress we make."

He takes Karim by the wrist, before leading him back inside the hospital. Rasis is flirting with some EMT in the lobby, and she notices them almost immediately.

"Mr. Gourcuff! You're not supposed to be out of your bed—Karim? What's going on?"

Yoann gives her a smile and a wave, which seems to be the remedy to everything.

~~

"Do you lie to the police a lot?" Karim asks, upon realizing quickly that there is no lawyer waiting to speak with him.

Yoann eases onto the hospital bed, wincing as he readjusts his equilibrium. "No, but it's neat, isn't it? The lawyer card. No one wants to speak to lawyers."

"So what am I doing here?"

"Not getting arrested for no reason?" Yoann says as if it's obvious, and Karim shoots him a wary look. Since when did anyone—or anyone outside of the backwaters of society—care about the lines the police might cross, in the pretense of defending the city and its precious inhabitants. And this Yoann guy went out of his way to care.

"So how long do you think we should wait, so no one suspects anything?" Yoann asks.

Karim simply shrugs.

"Well, why don't you stay until my friend comes? He's only 20 minutes away. Are you in a hurry?"

"No," Karim says, even though he actually is.

"Okay, good." Yoann smiles, falling silent again.

And after casually inspecting the décor—or lack of—in the humble hospital room, Karim eventually asks, "Don't you want to press charges still?"

"About this?" The guy blinks up at him. "I don't think it'll do any good."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I didn't even see who attacked me. Did you?"

"Two kids. Early-teens. Arab," Karim says, and Yoann waves a dismissive hand.

"Yeah, that's not going to work. They won't find them." He leans into his pillows, sighing. "Everything they took, I can replace. It'll be a hassle though."

Okay, so this Yoann guy probably has money, so he's not financially affected by the whole ordeal. But the last time Karim checked, rich people hated being attacked and having their stuff stolen as much as anyone. Shouldn't the guy be more shaken, even angry?

"Oh, I'm sorry," Yoann says suddenly. "I'm not entirely sure, but your name is Karim, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Yoann. I think I told you that much before."

Karim nods.

"I'm not pleased by the circumstances, but I'm glad to have met you, Karim." Yoann frowns a little. "I went looking for you to thank you properly, but I still haven't figured out how I should go about it."

"It's really nothing." Samir probably would've asked for financial compensation, but Karim isn't tacky like that. Besides, the guy kept him from a night at the police station, which is probably compensation enough.

"How about I treat you to dinner sometimes?"

"I—What?"

"Yeah, why don't we do that?" Yoann appears wholly satisfied with his plan, shuffling through his folded jacket for a pen and a wrinkled receipt. "I'd give you my number too, but my phone was taken, so there's no point in that."

He hands the materials to Karim, who returns a look of cautious disbelief.

"If you want to, that is," Yoann adds demurely, upon seeing his hesitation.

Karim doesn't know why he even wrote down his real number, considering the guy is probably touched in the head. But then again, he did receive a pretty hard knock, so maybe he'd realize the strangeness of his actions after a good night's rest.

"Okay, good." Yoann smiles as he takes the paper. "I'll call you sometime after—"

The door opens behind Karim, and Yoann's face completely falls. Karim turns to find a stern, graying man in his fifties, wearing a sharp suit and a thunderous frown. He's probably not the friend Yoann was expecting.

" _Papa_ , what are you—" Yoann swallows thickly, stumbling over his words. "This—uh—this is Karim. He drove me to the hospital after—"

"Will you please excuse us?" The older man looks icily to the _Maghrébin_.

Karim doesn't need to be asked twice.

~~

"Dude, what the fuck happened?" Samir greets Karim with overstated concern as the latter emerges from their borrowed car. It's pitch black by the time Karim returns to their commune, and Samir must've been waiting by the bicycle racks for some time now.

"I ran into the pigs, that's what fucking happened!" Karim slams the door harder than necessary.

"Shit, you okay, man? "

"Yeah, yeah. Got you the car. Still need it?"

Samir smiles cheekily and pats him on the back. "Yeah, tell Zizou you're taking tomorrow off. We're doing some deliveries for Ribéry."

The next day, Karim and Samir drive to some old factory warehouse across town and get six barrels of god-knows-what crammed into the back of the Nissan. Neither of them asks any questions.

~~

" _It is the sixth night, and riots have spread to nine other suburbs. Protesters set fire to two primary schools and a post office, while a metro station was hit with a Molotov bomb. Citizens call for greater government intervention in restoring order."_

~~

It's Saturday, meaning Enzo is off from school, and Zizou has no shortage of staff. This leaves Karim jobless and loitering with Samir and Hatem. They had planned to shoot some hoops, but someone had lit firebombs inside the courts the night before, so the entire park is fenced with yellow police tape. Karim, Samir, and Hatem end up on the roof of the nearby gym, drinking beer and smoking joints.

"Oh hey, look over there!" Samir points to the distance, his face lighting up. "A news van!"

All three _banlieusards_ rush to the side of the roof for a better view of their only distraction. The blue-white van drives up to the ruined park and stops.

"Who'd think this is enough for a scoop," Hatem says, tapping Karim on the shoulder.

"Probably 'cause the riots are spreading," he shrugs.

"Oh shit! It's Gaëtane Thiney!" Samir is practically hyperventilating, and Karim can't tell if he's being serious or not. A leggy brunette emerges from the passenger side of van, followed by a tall, lanky cameraman.

"You know, that reporter for _France 3_ , the hot one?" Samir elaborates when neither Karim nor Hatem share his enthusiasm. "She's like one of their main ones too. What's she doing here?"

"Why do you even know this?" Karim arches a brow, and Samir snorts.

"Because I watch the news, unlike you—you uncultured swine! Hey, hey! Ms. Thiney! Look this way!"

Ms. Thiney glances fleetingly in the direction of the noise, before continuing her conversation with her cameraman.

"Aww, don't be like that!" Samir whines. "You're so beautiful, _mademoiselle_! Come on, give us a smile!"

"My buddy here's a big fan of you!" Hatem laughs, joining in. "Give the _pauvre mec_ something to be happy about! Ay!"

This goes on for another minute or two, before the catcalls get even more creative. Ms. Thiney appears visibly flustered, hissing at her cameraman as if this is somehow his fault. Karim doesn't actively contribute, but he laughs along with his friends—that is until the backseat door of the van slides open, and Yoann steps into view.

Karim falters as they lock eyes. Yoann must've recognized him too.

"Hey, _mec_! What're you looking at? Are we talking to you? Fuck no!" Samir jeers, and Karim suddenly wants to slink away and die of mortification. His face must've shown it.

Yoann thins his lips, turning away, and it's only a matter of time before the news crew abandons their report and drives off.

~~

Honestly, Karim had forgotten all about Yoann since leaving him at the hospital the Tuesday before. Ribéry has kept them busy with errands all over the city—from warehouses, to factories, and even the occasional landfill—where they received sealed packages in bulk, along with an address and time to deliver them. Their knowledge of their involvement did not extend beyond that, but at least, the pay is good enough to compensate for whatever edginess they might feel. Karim still makes an effort to show up at Zizou's, at least often enough to keep his job.

That night, he gets a call from an unknown number and sort of just _knew_.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Is this Karim?"

"Yeah."

"Hi, this is Yoann from—from the hospital. I was just wondering if maybe—Are you free tomorrow night?"

~~

"Do you have a date?" Rasis asks, biting into an apple. Gressy at the kitchen table looks up from his homework.

"No, not really." Karim touches his short hair rather self-consciously. Sure, he's wearing some of his newer clothes, and his jeans don't have any holes in them, but is it really that obvious he had been trying?

"Well, either way, you look very sharp." Rasis smiles, reaching over to straighten the collar of his jacket. "Where are you going?"

" _Le Mercière_."

"Oh, that's actually kind of classy."

"Yeah?"

"You mean she picked the place?" Rasis arches a brow, and Karim immediately averts his eyes. He shouldn't have allowed the conversation to get this far.

"I told you, it's not a date," he says, before grabbing his keys from the counter. "Tell _Maman_ I'll be out."

~~

Maybe Yoann really did suffer some unfortunate brain damage, because Karim honestly can't imagine why the guy would still want to have dinner, after seeing the _Maghrébin_ in the worst light possible—first being manhandled by the police, and then howling nonsense at his female coworker.

Karim steps into the restaurant and is momentarily caught out by how dimly lit the place is, the candle lights along the wall tinting everything sort of orange. Yoann is sipping water by the windows. He hasn't shaved in a few days, and his hair is a hint too short to cover the healing cut on his forehead, but Karim supposes Yoann is one of those people who look attractive no matter what.

Karim takes the seat across from him, and Yoann looks up, smiling politely. He says Karim is free to order whatever he wants, but he highly recommends the salmon, so Karim takes the salmon. Things are awkward at first, and neither of them speaks much, but after the second glass of wine, Yoann opens up.

"You know, I don't normally do this." He makes a vague gesture with his hand. "Ask a guy—or anyone—for their number, after just having met."

"Yeah?" Karim diverts from his meal, and Yoann frowns a little.

"For some reason, I get this false sense of confidence when I'm on painkillers and—well, I was pretty drugged up that day."

Yoann says it very solemnly, and Karim laughs even if the guy never intended to be funny. "Is that why you smart mouthed those cops?"

"Well, no," Yoann smiles. "I would've done that regardless. Although maybe, not as smoothly."

They talk a bit more about that night, and conversation feels easier. Yoann had a mild concussion and spent two days in bed, bored out of his mind. Everything he lost are in the process of being replaced—his papers, credit card, license, phone. The cameraman from _France 3_ —Hugo—was actually the friend Yoann had been waiting for, and he still has no idea how his father had gotten there ahead of him.

"So you work for the station?" Karim asks.

"No, for the paper actually— _Le Progrès_. I'm a journalist."

"Oh."

"Hugo and Gaëtane got the story on the park vandalism, and I decided to tag along. I want to write about stuff like that—riots and unrest, things that actually matter, instead of—" He grimaces a little. "—Food people should avoid."

"Sorry about before, on the roof." Karim recalls yesterday and all the vulgar jeers Samir and Hatem had managed to produce. He feels obligated to apologize, but he knows he is a hypocrite. They were having fun, and it probably will happen again, maybe not with Yoann or Gaëtane, but certainly someone else. It's one way for them to pass the time.

"Oh, no worries." Yoann gives him a shy little smile. "We got the report done after you guys left."

Karim honestly has no idea why this guy even wants to talk to him.

"So what do you do?" Yoann asks after another stretch of silence.

"I wait tables at my friend's restaurant." Karim isn't exactly proud, but it's definitely better than his afternoon job.

"Ah, what kind of restaurant?" Yoann's eyes light up, which Karim finds somewhat unusual, given the blandness of their conversation topic.

"Algerian-owned."

"How's the couscous."

"Good. Really good."

"Mind if I drop by sometime?"

"I—" Karim says the only excuse he can think of, which happens to be a lame one. "It might be out of your way."

"Is it in the same commune as where we were? With the park vandalism?"

"Yeah."

"It's no trouble at all, then."

They finish their meals, and since Yoann had said it was his treat—and he's a guy—Karim decides to skip the dance of the check altogether. It's lightly drizzling by the time they step outside, and they linger under the canopy for a minute or two. The wine must've worn off because it's awkward again. But Karim supposes goodbyes are always awkward.

He was contemplating the formal handshake or the friendlier kiss on the cheek, when Yoann says to him, "I live two blocks away. Do you want to maybe…?"

~~

Yoann's apartment is in the 2nd arrondissement of Lyon, along a quiet street of a lively neighborhood. It's one bedroom—small, minimalist, but chic—and Karim finds it surprisingly calming, like a meditation room straight out of a catalogue. In the living area, there is a TV, a futon, matching ottomans, an impressive bookshelf, and—perhaps, even a shade too cliché—a desk with a typewriter. Yoann lives alone, that much is obvious. Everything is clean and neat, and Karim wonders whether it's from personal preference or disuse.

Karim isn't delusional or stupid, so he has been pondering several reasons why someone like Yoann would want anything to do with someone like him. Brain damage from the mugging incident would be the obvious culprit. But assuming Yoann is not compromised in the head—perhaps to an aspiring journalist invested in the troubled suburbs—Karim seems like the perfect embodiment of mixing business with pleasure. Yoann is probably using him to indulge in the _banlieusard_ culture, but who is Karim to complain? The guy is gorgeous, and in all honesty, Karim could have paid money for less.

"You should stay," Yoann says as they lay together, his head cushioned on Karim's shoulder, lips pressed to the skin beneath his collarbone.

It's a quarter to midnight, and Karim supposes if he hurried, he could still catch the metro before it closed. Maybe.

But Yoann feels good next to him—warm and inviting—so Karim doesn't bring himself to leave until early next morning.

~~

The first thing he does when he gets home is look up Yoann Gourcuff on Gressy's laptop. He finds Yoann's articles on _Les Progrès_ every so often in the culture and lifestyle section (he actually did write a piece on food people should avoid).

But perhaps, what's more interesting is that Yoann also writes for a social justice blog—in his spare time, Karim presumes. And after skimming a few entries regarding the socioeconomic problems in France, the necessity for sensible integration policies, and occasionally, a personal anecdote, Karim concludes that Yoann is some sort of liberal, idealistic nut.

And these leftist blog entries certainly appear more passionate and lauded than the articles he writes for _Les Progrès._

Yoann's most recent segment seems to top them all, and out of curiosity, Karim hovers over the link titled "Lyon and Her Suburbs: The Two Faces" and clicks.

" _In most socially advanced countries, the word 'suburb' calls to mind the images of manicured lawns, friendly people, and beautiful family homes. However, the equivalent in France—les banlieues—suggests stigmatized neighborhoods plagued by poverty, crime, and unemployment, where social problems emerge and fester behind the lovely façade of the metropolis._

" _I write to you today amidst terror, shock, and revelation, in deliberation of a recent event that wholly exemplifies the two faces of les banlieues—the stigma which feeds on our worst prejudice and fears, as well as the elements of humanity which we often tend to forget. I write to you with the tale of a stranger, whom I had met in a time of both disaster and fortune, whom I will refer to from now on as K."_

~~

Half past one on the following Thursday, Yoann finds Karim in Zizou's restaurant. They have fewer customers than usual, so Karim spots him right away, sitting close by the windows with a small, expectant smile on his face. Karim greets him with a half-nod.

"When's your break?" Yoann asks as Karim approaches, notepad and pen in hand.

"I get off at three."

"Oh." The smile falters a little.

"So what would you like?" Karim asks after a brief, awkward pause.

"Um, what do you recommend?"

"Couscous with lamb?"

"Sounds good."

Karim gives the order to the cook and spends the next fifteen minutes stealing fleeting glances towards Yoann, while the other man does the same. Zizou eventually sighs, before telling Karim to go on ahead.

"It's not even two yet," Karim points out, and Zizou shrugs one shoulder.

"The noon rush is over, and I can handle the rest."

Karim finishes wiping the counter and leaves his towel by the sink, before dropping into the seat across from his unexpected visitor. Yoann jumps at the sudden disturbance, turning to him surprised. His eyes are green, Karim notes, now that they're finally up close in broad daylight.

"Zizou's letting me off early," he says.

"That's nice of him."

Yoann's fingers edge closer to his, but Karim moves away, shooting a wary glance in the direction of his boss. Yoann gets the message and withdraws as well, appearing a tad crestfallen. Karim shifts in his seat uneasily.

"So I'm K."

"Oh." Yoann's lashes flicker. "You found that already. I guess it wasn't very well concealed."

"No, not really."

"I wanted to talk to you about that, actually."

Karim nods, and Yoann bites the corner of his lip, grimacing. "I don't know, what did you think? Or was it too weird?"

Karim remembers Yoann's argument against cultural and economic segregation and the dangers they breed, but also the persistence of goodness no matter which part of society you're from. Karim almost doesn't want to admit (even to himself) that if Yoann had been attacked anywhere else besides by Louisa's car, there was chance that Karim might've simply done nothing. But now is hardly the time to ponder one's ethicality, so Karim chooses his next words carefully. "Well, other people seemed to like it."

"I liked it too." Yoann's enthusiasm astounds even himself, and he quickly retracts. "I mean—it was something I was proud of, and I haven't written anything worth reading in awhile. So does this mean you wouldn't mind if I kept on doing that?"

Yoann looks at him with timid expectation, and Karim very slowly says, "No."

"You sure though?" Yoann straightens in his seat. "Because I can stop. I don't want to pressure you into saying yes, just because we're—we're—"

Karim furrows his brows, questioning whether this is indeed normal behavior, but Zizou's arrival scrambles his thoughts completely.

"Alright, enjoy." Zizou sets down two plates.

"I didn't order anything," Karim says.

"On the house. They both are."

"Oh, thank you, sir. But I can't possibly—" Yoann immediately objects.

"No, believe me." Zizou looks pointedly at both of them. "They're on the house."

~~

" _After eleven nights of consecutive rioting, the violence finally subsides. Arson and vandalism decreased considerably, and towns in the suburbs are calling for order. The president will make a public address tomorrow evening, in an effort to prevent future urban violence."_

~~

Yoann smiles the way Gressy smiled when he brought home his first girlfriend, and it doesn't take long for Karim to realize the problem. Yoann's writing is raw, engaging, and utterly honest—so much so that it no longer reads like an analysis or criticism, but a journey through the man's head, into all of his fears, doubts, and hopes for humanity.

And Karim finds it strange that he can know exactly what Yoann thinks about him—or at least, what he thinks about K. Yoann transforms him into some valiant anti-hero of the suburb—noble at heart despite his circumstances, the relative good amidst desolation. His view of the _Maghrébin_ is tragically optimistic at best, and Karim wonders if it's wrong to not correct him.

They've been steady for three months and a half—albeit in semi-secrecy—neither of them wanting to face the full consequences of their decisions yet. By now, Rasis and Gressy know, but they're the only ones on Karim's side. Sabri is too much of a loudmouth to keep a secret, and Karim still hasn't told _Maman_. He doubts Samir or Hatem would understand.

Yoann doesn't bring them up with his family, but he's open towards close friends, although Karim can't figure out why Yoann would want to be. He also doesn't ask.

"You never introduce me to anyone." Yoann whines as they lie side-by-side, not touching but close enough to feel each other's warmth. Karim has been spending at least three nights at week with Yoann these past few months. "It's like you're ashamed of me."

It's not Yoann that he's ashamed of, Karim thinks.

"I introduced you to all my friends, even though you hated it."

"I didn't hate it."

Karim has only met Yoann's friends twice—the first time for Hugo's birthday, and the second for Olivier's apartment warming. Yoann belongs to a small, closely-knit group of people, who seem just as airy and eccentric. Karim has already met Hugo and Gaëtane, however brief and informal it might've been. And he breathed a sigh of relief when neither appears to remember him from the roof incident. Olivier is a personal trainer and a ski instructor during the season—too tall, handsome, and friendly for Karim to feel comfortable around. Raphaël and Clément are a bit younger and appear more fleetingly—the former a technician for the _Musée des Beaux-Arts,_ and the latter a freelance photographer. Yoann's friends are far from unkind, but they treat Karim like a spectacle—considering those blog entries are practically Yoann's diary on display. Whatever interactions Karim had managed with them felt awkward and unnatural. He never said anything, but Yoann must've known.

"Well, you had an awful time," the journalist says with a touch of petulance, and Karim sighs at the ceiling.

"Everyone kept on asking if I'm K."

"What did you tell them?"

"No." Because he really wasn't.

"I guess it's my fault. I should've disguised it better—I don't know."

Yoann is lying on his front, chin resting on his folded arms. He sighs sadly as Karim runs a hand from the angles of his shoulder blades to the curve of his ass.

"You can't let them know you write about me though," Karim says after some consideration. "My friends."

Yoann looks to him bright-eyed, mood instantly lifted. "I won't."

"Or anything about this—us," he adds carefully, and Yoann thins his lips, but nods nonetheless. "Or that you work for the papers."

"Why not?"

"They won't trust the media."

"But I'm different though. I want them to know."

"They won't give you a chance otherwise. Just meet them first."

Karim intertwines their fingers and kisses the dips of Yoann's knuckles, until the other man finally agrees. There's still a hint of sadness in Yoann's eyes, and Karim wishes it weren't the case.

"You're free this Friday afternoon?"

"I can be." Yoann nestles closer, and Karim instinctively extends an arm so Yoann can lie on his chest.

"Play sports?"

"Like tennis?"

"More like basketball."

"No."

"Football?"

"Of course."

~~

"Ay, Karim! Care to be on time for once, you lazy fuck?" Samir shouts as he heads the ball to Hatem, who brings it down easily with his chest. The usual guys are already there—Clichy, Sakho, Lacazette, Valbuena—along with a few others Karim doesn't know too well personally. It's not a bad crowd, he thinks, shouldn't be too much trouble.

"Who's the _céfran_?" Samir raises a brow, seeing Yoann stepping onto the turf alongside Karim and Gressy.

"That's Yoann," Gressy says while beaming overtly. "Our cousin-in-law from Paris. He's a tour guide for those cruises along the Seine, and he can speak English and Spanish to lost tourists."

Yoann smiles and shrugs, while Karim smacks his brother on the back of the head. He should've known better than to have Gressy come up with Yoann's fake identity.

"Cousin-in-law?" Samir looks at them suspiciously. "Which cousin?"

"Nadia," Karim answers.

"I didn't know you have a cousin Nadia."

"I have eight siblings," Karim says with a pained expression. "So how many cousins do you think I have, Samir? How many Benzemas do you think there are in the world?"

"Sheesh, forget I asked." Samir puts up his hands, before shooting Yoann another look of disapproval. "Shirts versus skins, alright? Pretty boy?"

He and Hatem then proceed to pull off their shirts, flexing like competitive males in some primal intimidation ritual. Yoann hesitates and turns to Karim, who snorts.

"Put your shirt back on, Gressy. We're shirts this time." He has never played against Samir, but there's a first time for everything, right?

"Aww, but shirts always lose." Gressy whines as he wiggles his clothes back on.

Rasis is the oldest who is still living at home, but Karim is the oldest boy, so Gressy and Sabri look up to him differently than they do with Rasis. And despite their constant bickering and teasing, Karim knows how important he is to his younger brothers, and he never wants to disappoint them, even if it's in some stupid football match on a pitch with more dirt than grass. Karim doesn't have much more than that under his belt. Plus, Yoann is here today, so Karim really needs to impress, and he certainly doesn't need Samir or Hatem's help for that.

They play 6v6 without keepers at first, because no one wants to be keeper. They usually vote for the worst after the first half, and the loser has to be keeper after the break—a very democratic process, really.

Yoann likes to play center midfield, so right behind Karim who's always the center forward. He tells Gressy to play out on the wing this time. Samir is Yoann's opposite and tackles him a touch too hard. The field is poorly kept so it always hurts when you fall. Yoann winces as Samir lands on top of him.

"Hey, take it easy!" Karim stops play, and Samir rolls his eyes as he dusts himself off.

He offers a hand in good sportsmanship and helps Yoann to his feet. They have a laugh about it, and Karim doesn't keep his eyes off them the entire time.

Close to half hour, Yoann curls in a cross from the wing. Karim leaps in full flight, just managing to reach it with the front of his forehead. He nods it into the top corner, and even if there had been a keeper, he wouldn't have kept that out.

Everyone huddles around the goal scorer, and Karim points to Yoann and smiles. They still need to decide for the keeper, but it certainly won't be Yoann or Karim.

~~

It's easy to like Yoann because he's genuine, naïve, and kind. Samir and Hatem accept him well enough by the end of the match, laughing and patting him on the back. Any family of Karim's is a friend of theirs, they had said, and after that, Yoann looks for Karim in their commune more often than he would've liked.

Karim is careful to keep Yoann from the worst aspects of his life, never leaving him alone with Samir, Hatem, or even his family. He plans their time together meticulously well. They play football because people don't usually talk during football, and they watch Lyon matches at Zizou's for the same reason.

After five months, Karim finally brings Yoann home for dinner, and _Maman_ is delighted to meet one of Karim's friends, who has good table manners and doesn't argue with the always-opinionated Rasis.

"Yoann is a very nice boy," _Maman_ pulls Karim aside that night, while Yoann stays at the table with Gressy and Sabri, discussing Lyon's new signings. "Maybe you can introduce him to your sister."

"No, _Ma_!" Karim whines, obviously horrified at the suggestion, and _Maman_ laughs, thinking it's only because of the thought of his sister.

~~

" _While the troops prepare for the traditional military parade down the Champs-Élysées, police forces all over France are anticipating long nights of crime, violence, and anarchy. Riots have become a regular occurrence on the eve of Bastille Day, an outlet for suburban youths to express their dissatisfaction towards high unemployment and failed integration policies. The government has made rigorous attempts in preventing Bastille Day riots, but cars and public property continue to be vandalized during the nights preceding."_

~~

Franck Ribéry has crooked teeth and a long scar down the side of his face. He's a bit older than Karim, and deals drugs and vandalizes property like most people around here. But there's more to him than small time crime—Karim's sure of it—considering Ribéry always have money flowing in one way or another, enough to hire Karim and Samir and even ensure their obedience and silence. Franck Ribéry is not someone Karim wants to mess with, and that's exactly what he tells himself when Samir rings him up a night in early July, saying Ribéry wants to talk.

Karim stands by Samir, watching a brown glass bottle shatter against the cement walls of an underground parking lot. The liquid within the bottle mixes with air and instantly ignites in yellow flames.

"Lights up all on it's own, no whisk, no nothing," Ribéry says proudly, slapping Ménez on the back. "Courtesy of my man, here."

Three years attempting a chemistry degree, and this is all it has amounted to. Ménez can also extract drugs from Tylenol, Karim has heard.

"So, you in or what? Nasri, Benzema?"

Apparently, Ribéry, Menez, and their boys were sponsored to mass-produce Molotov cocktails in an abandoned coke factory, and Karim and Samir had set up their supply routes without even realizing it. Now, they're preparing to enter the Bastille Day riots.

"You guys did all the grunt work, so this time around, I'll let you in on the fun too." Ribéry grins crookedly. "Those _flics_ won't even know what hit them. What do you say?"

"Yeah man, we're cool," Samir responds immediately, but Karim can tell he's about to jump out of his skin.

"And you, Benzema?"

Karim looks at Ribéry and nods because—what else can he do?

~~

"Come on, Karim—ah—" Yoann whines as Karim stills his hips, leaning in to kiss along his shoulder and neck.

He loves seeing Yoann likes this—hair matted, pupils blown, Karim's name on the tip of his tongue. Being with Yoann makes him almost forget, almost not care.

Karim readjusts, returning to their usual rhythm. Yoann twists and moans. They're both teetering on the brink, Karim can tell.

"You're beautiful," he says and watches those long lashes flicker. Yoann looks at him stunned.

He has never told Yoann this—he just realized—even though he spends every day thinking about it.

~~

Yoann comes from a privileged household, his father and grandfather both partners in the most prestigious law firm in Lyon. Yoann's older brother, Erwan, chose the path of the family trade, graduating from the esteemed _l'_ _Ecole de Droit de la Sorbonne_. Yoann decided to study journalism at the tender age of sixteen, after taking a few sociology classes and becoming utterly transfixed. Needless to say, he's the black sheep of the family.

A man on a mission, Yoann wholly devotes himself to the responsibilities of journalism—loyalty to their citizens and obligation to truth. He sees the goodness in others, and trusts that people would do _something_ , if only they knew.

" _Not many people are willing to venture out of the cities for fear and prejudice, but I am. I'm willing to do it for them, and show that there are people living outside the grandeur of Lyon and Paris, people who are neglected, suffering, mistreated, and angry. Awareness is the first step to change—not the riots, not cracking down, deportation, or harsh punishments. It's always rioters against the police, and neither is in the position to impart change. The people of France are the most important, and the government must serve its people. Once the entirety of France comprehends the diversities and issues outside of our city walls, change will be imminent. This is my goal, as well as the goal of my predecessors and colleagues—to deliver truth to the citizens, to cater to the greater good."_

Yoann wants to write for larger, more progressive papers, like _Le Monde_ o _r Libération_.

"I feel I'll be better off, if I can write more columns," he says, propping himself on one elbow and sliding his free hand along Karim's bare chest.

"What's the difference?" The _Maghrébin_ asks.

"Well, columnists share their opinions, while journalists and reporters, they have to be neutral—or try to be, at least. There's no such thing as total neutrality. Everyone has their personal bias."

Yoann shifts forward to kiss at the stubble along Karim's jaw, before sighing. "I'm too opinionated, so it's always hard, but I try to be neutral when I need to be. When I write columns, I get to make my bias obvious. Not everyone might agree with me, but I think my opinions are worth hearing. I care, I mean well, and I want others to see what I see, to change the world for the better—it's an admirable thing to want, isn't it?"

Karim thinks Yoann is woefully idealistic, but probably the finest the world has to offer. He wonders how long it will last and wishes he could protect Yoann from all the evils just waiting to tear him apart.

~~

"It's not just us, Karim. Everyone's gonna be in it—Hatem, the guys—just like old times. It's no big deal."

"Shit, man!" Karim shrugs away Samir's hand and continues his frantic pacing in his friend's bedroom. His knees feel weak, and his mind is already running a mile a minute. "I just needed the fucking money. I never wanted to be part of anything!"

"Calm down, Karim." Samir's voice is comforting but his eyes look alarmed. "Look at it this way. It's our chance to do something so the world will finally pay attention—Be proud of it, come on!"

"It's not going to work." He thinks about his family, Zizou, and Yoann. "This happens all the time, and—It's not— _I'm_ not—"

"Snap out of it!" Samir grabs onto his shoulders and shakes. "What the hell is the matter with you? Aren't you tired of being treated like shit? Living at home 'cause you can't find a job, having everyone look down on us like we're the scum of the earth? Think about Walid—he was just like you, wanting some extra cash for the family. Do this for Walid!"

"Fuck you!" Karim feels his blood boiling. He shoves Samir away, sending him tumbling onto his bed. "I have four sisters and two younger brothers. I can't end up like Walid!"

He leaves before Samir can respond.

~~

Karim stays with his family on the eve of Bastille Day, watching the riots on the TV in the kitchen. _Maman_ held his hand for forty-five minutes because she feared Karim would run off, even though Karim had told her dozens of times that he has no intention to. He sees rocks being thrown, cars set ablaze, and rioters fleeing from dogs and police. He sees Gaëtane Thiney before a vandalized strip mall and feels his stomach drop to his feet.

" _Riots have spread to the southern suburbs of Lyon, where hundreds of people have gathered in violent protest_."

Karim texts Yoann underneath the kitchen table, against the backdrop of explosions, shattering glass, and Gaëtane's flustered voice.

Me (7:36PM): _Where r u?_

He receives no reply for an entire minute. He tries again.

Me (7:37PM) _: R u home?_

Yoann answers almost immediately this time.

Yoann (7:37PM) _: No_

Me (7:37PM) _: R u in the riot?_

No response again, so Karim calls, but Yoann doesn't pick up.

Me (7:38PM): _Fuck Yoann. Answer me_

Yoann (7:39PM): _I came with Hugo and Gaetane. We got separated. I'm sorry_

"Shit, _shit_!" Karim swears at his phone, and everyone in the kitchen turns to him, alarmed. He stumbles to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process, before shuffling on his shoes by the front door. He rushes out of the house, ignoring _Maman_ and Rasis calling for him as the door slams.

He calls Yoann once he's outside the apartment complex. He can see smoke and fire in the distance, coloring the night sky in morbid shades of orange and brown. Yoann finally picks up after five rings—the clattering chaos in the background unmistakable.

"Where are you?"

"I don't know."

"What do you see around you?"

"A playground. A jungle gym and a slide in the shape of an elephant."

"Okay. Alright." Karim says as he starts running, feeling the pavement greet his feet with each desperate step. He prays he will reach Yoann in time. "Stay where you are, and stay out of people's way. I'm coming for you."

He spends the next fifteen minutes dodging rocks and Molotov cocktails. It's summer, it's hot, and the streets feel like paths to hell, with their dried, cracked pavement and burning cars. Rioters are smashing everything they can find—fueled by anger and the single-mindedness to destroy. Karim tries to block them out of his mind, and focuses all of his will power on traversing through the madness. He has to get to Yoann, and he can't afford to fuck up now.

"Karim, Karim!" As luck would have it, Samir finds him first, greeting him with open arms and a Molotov cocktail in one hand. "I knew you'd come around!"

Samir slings an arm over him, thwarting his efforts to get away, before waving maniacally to a nearby crowd—Ribéry and his boys. "Ay, Franck, look! Karim came! Told ya he'd be cool! Hey!"

Ribéry approaches them, grinning wolfishly before the burning backdrop. "You had me doubting for a second there, Benzema. Here take a swing at it."

He shoves a cocktail into Karim's hands, and for a moment, Karim simply stands there, dumbstruck.

"I'm not actually here for—" He manages, before hearing the looming echo of batons against shields. The _banlieusards_ scatter at the first sign of the riot forces.

" _Baise la police_!" Someone shouts in the distance.

Karim drops the cocktail and runs. The bottle cracks on the pavement behind him and ignites anyway.

He reaches the playground and finds Yoann standing just outside with a camera pressed to his chest. The elephant slide is set ablaze, burning blue and yellow behind the barbed-wire fence. Yoann appears both terrified and transfixed at the destruction before him. Karim grabs his shoulder and whips him around. The journalist startles but eases when realizing whom it is.

"Are you hurt?" Karim asks, and Yoann shakes his head, eyes wide and unblinking. Karim feels relief washing over, but not nearly enough to compensate for his frustration. "What the hell were you thinking, coming out here?"

"This is my job."

"No, it's not."

"Well, this is what I want to do." Yoann frowns, regaining some self-composure. "This is what I care about."

" _Fuck_ this!" Karim shouts—inarticulate, desperate, and probably more unrestrained than he has ever been. Yoann tenses from how tightly Karim is gripping onto his shoulders. "There's a reason why people are afraid, why people want to leave this shithole but can't! You see the good in others—I get it. You're the fucking good in this world! But there are assholes here, Yoann. There are assholes anywhere, and for fuck's sake, show some self-preservation! Because if something happened to you tonight—I would—I would've—"

The tank of a nearby car explodes, and Karim immediately shoves Yoann out of the way, shielding him from any debris. They emerge, startled but unharmed.

"Have you seen enough?" Karim says, licking at his drying lips.

Yoann shakily nods.

~~

Karim returns home with Yoann and finds his family exactly where he had left them—huddled around the kitchen table, facing the TV. Rasis stands up from her seat, but doesn't say anything.

"Yoann's staying here tonight because of—" Karim hesitates and gestures towards the screen. "—Is that okay?"

Everyone is looking at him with varying degrees of curiosity and alarm, and Karim doesn't realize until seconds later that he's still holding onto Yoann's hand. He doesn't let go, either.

"I'll set an extra plate," _Maman_ says as she scuttles through the kitchen.

~~

Growing up with nine siblings mean there is never a shortage of beds when unexpected guests come over. Karim isn't proud that he's still living at home at twenty-four, but at least, he's had his own room since Ameen moved out. _Maman_ sets Ameen's old bed for Yoann against the opposite wall, and it feels ridiculous—lying in darkness with Yoann breathing a few feet away—like an awkward kids' sleepover.

It doesn't take long before Yoann pushes his covers aside and slinks over to Karim, snuggling next to the _Maghrébin_ in a bed clearly not meant for two.

"I'm sorry," Yoann says, burying his face in the crook of Karim's neck. "I didn't mean to make you worry, take you from your family, and then, make them worry."

"I'm sorry too," Karim says to the ceiling, and Yoann lifts his head.

"For what?"

"I'm not some upstanding citizen like you. I could've been in that riot."

"But you weren't." Yoann slides an arm around Karim's waist. "You were with your family, and you risked getting lit on fire and bitten by dogs, for me."

"I could've left you that day." Karim says into the darkness. "When you were attacked."

"But you didn't," Yoann speaks more firmly this time. He props himself up, wanting to meet eyes, but Karim turns away. "What's the matter?"

"I'm no good for anyone, especially not for you."

"I'm a grown man. Shouldn't I know what's good for me?"

"Not after today." Karim shakes his head. "No."

The silence between them seems to stretch indefinitely. Karim feels Yoann's eyes bearing down on him the entire time.

"Gressy and Sabri are smart," Karim eventually says, "They'll get into university. Rasis is working hard at the hospital— _fuck_ , everyone who can is working hard. I guess the good thing about having nine kids is that a couple of them are bound to turn out right. They can take care of _Maman_ , but I'm—I'm just—"

"You're working hard too," Yoann insists, and Karim grimaces at his cluelessness, his optimism.

"I wait tables during the day, and after that, it's grunt work for criminals. Most of my money is drug money—You know that?"

"I don't care."

"Well, you should. You should care."

"Shut up, Karim."

And Karim does shut up.

"Why is it so hard to believe I like you?" Yoann asks, and Karim honestly doesn't know where to begin.

"Have you _seen_ us? You would've never given me a second look if you weren't such a—social justice nutcase."

"You mean if I were an ignorant, uncultured _beauf_."

"For fuck's sake, normal people are somewhere in between that."

"So what are you saying, Karim?" Yoann sounds hurt, and Karim feels a tightening in his throat that makes it difficult to breathe, let alone speak coherently. "If this—If we don't work out, then it's not because of me. You know that?"

"I know."

"I like you, a lot," Yoann says. "Do you like me?"

"That's not the point, Yoann, I—"

" _Do you_?"

"Yes," Karim sighs like an apology.

"How much?"

"Why are we—"

"Just answer the damn question, Karim," Yoann snaps, a slight quiver in his voice betraying him. "You never tell me anything, like I'm too fragile to handle the truth, or that you'll end up disappointing me, so you'd rather keep at a distance. Well, I just want to put it out there for you, that none of that other stuff matters. You've made me happier than I've been in a long time, and I know you're a good person, despite what you tell yourself. I like you, Karim, more than I've liked anyone. And I'll only consider it a mistake if you don't feel the same way."

"Fuck, Yoann." Karim finally turns to journalist, sliding his palm against the other's cheek. "You know I care about you. Don't for a moment think I don't care about you. Just as much. Maybe more."

"Good." Yoann stiffens his lips. "Because I want you to come to Paris with me."

"You— _What_?"

" _Libération_ is opening new offices." Yoann looks at him nervously. "And they want me for _L'Actualité Société_."

"That's—That's great!" Karim shakes his head, astounded. He props himself up so they're at eye level. "Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"Only if you come with me," Yoann says, and Karim is practically left gaping.

"Who cares about me?"

"I do! They're opening new offices, meaning everything's new, and we can find something for you—I'll make sure of it—because you're K."

Karim sinks into his pillow, feeling quite incredulous. "I'm not K."

"Well, K was inspired by you, and that's what got me the job. They liked what I wrote about you."

Karim takes a long moment to digest the information, before turning to Yoann, eyebrows raised. " _Really_?"

"You said it was good!" Yoann punches him in the bicep, appearing quite displeased, and Karim can't help but laugh.

"It is but—it felt like reading your diary."

"Well, that's what they liked. With a little work, it might be good for the columns."

Karim doesn't say anything after, simply stares at the ceiling in disbelief. Yoann tangles their legs together and rests his chin on the other man's shoulder.

"Come to Paris with me," he says, as Karim rubs tiredly at his forehead.

"I don't know."

"I don't want to write without you."

"This is a lot, all at once."

"I also don't want to do anything without you."

It takes some time for Karim to comprehend the full weight of these words, and he turns to Yoann stunned, hopeful, and undoubtedly in love.

"Fuck, do you even realize some of the stuff you say?" He pulls Yoann close and kisses him before he can say anything else.

~~

Karim bids farewell to his family the day of his departure. He tells Gressy and Sabri to work hard in school, and kisses _Maman_ and Rasis goodbye, promising to visit as often as he can, Eid every year.

"Well, it's about time he got hitched!" Sabri says just as he steps outside. And _Maman_ shushes him, saying he doesn't know what he's talking about, but Karim thinks Sabri knows exactly what he's talking about.

He goes to Zizou after and thanks him for everything he has done. Zizou jokes that Karim had been a lousy waiter anyway, and he's sure to find someone better. They're having a good laugh, just as Samir and Hatem walk in.

"Yo, I heard from Sabri that you're getting hitched!" Samir gestures for a pound, which Karim accepts after heaving a sigh.

"You shouldn't listen to everything a fifteen year old says."

As always, Samir spends the next twenty minutes trying to talk Karim out of leaving, but regardless of his antics and eccentricities, Samir is a good friend. They've known each other ever since they had memories, and Samir is undoubtedly happy for him. They all are.

"Well, don't forget about us _banlieusards_ when you're some big shot in Paris."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"It's cool that your cousin-in-law got you a nice hook up." Samir nudges him, and Karim winces a little, rubbing at the short hair at his neck.

"Yoann's actually not my cousin-in-law. He's a friend."

Samir looks at him curiously before shrugging. Hatem is bouncing a basketball by the restaurant entrance, much to Zizou's annoyance.

"Shoot some hoops, one last time?" Samir wrinkles his brows in hope, and Karim punches him in the shoulder.

"God, you're making it sound like I'm never coming back." He checks his phone for the time, before deciding, "Alright, a quick one."

Samir laughs and throws an arm over him, reciting a joke about a nun in a bar. They wave goodbye to Zizou before heading for the courts.

~~

There are boxes everywhere in Yoann's apartment. The journalist is standing at the center of his living room, his sleeves rolled to the elbow and his white button-down shirt half-tucked from his jeans. He has no socks on, and his dark hair is unrulier than ever.

Yoann taps at his chin in thought, as he slides a pen behind one ear. He has a roll of bubble wrap under one arm, obviously intended for the lone occupant of his otherwise empty desk—his typewriter.

Karim drops his single suitcase before kicking off his shoes. He approaches Yoann from behind, wrapping his arms around the other man's waist.

"Almost ready," Yoann says as Karim breathes into his hair.

~~

End

**Glossary**

**le monde est à vous** : "the world is yours," a quote from the French film _La Haine_  
 **pauvre con** : poor sod, poor bastard  
 **flics** : cops  
 **Maghrébin** : someone of North African descent  
 **banlieues** : peripheral regions outside of French cities, often associated with ghettos  
 **banlieusards** : someone from the banlieues  
 **pauvre mec** : poor guy  
 **céfran** : slang for a Caucasian French person, someone without foreign-born ancestors  
 **baise la police** : fuck the police  
 **beauf** : slang, usually refers to an arrogant, uncultured, unintelligent, right-wing leaning male driven by basic instincts and reasoning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please drop a comment and remember to check out the [fanmix](http://www.adrive.com/public/GZvm2K/Le%20Monde%20est%20a%20vous%20Mix.zip) made by [dld_ftw](http://dld-ftw.livejournal.com/)!


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